Fiction｜Fowl

a short story

Hello,

We’ll try something new today. I always planned to share my fiction here, and this is the inaugural story. It is called “Fowl”, I wrote it in 2011, and I think it’s the first story in which I managed to really capture my own style. You can read it in original Russian here (it will open a pdf file).

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This is a longer post that might be truncated in emails. I highly recommend you click on the title to read the whole 5,000-word short story without interruption.

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Fowl

…and dumbfounded by this blooming spring
I will take flight into the evening sky.
And sweeper Stepanov will stare mid-swing,
And hide his broom, and also fly.

Aleksei Iwashchenko

“Sisteen rouble,” said the somewhat apologetic vendor.

Alferov handed him two crumpled ten-rouble bills, picked up a plastic, cold-to-the-touch glass of kvass from the makeshift stand, and patiently waited until the swarthy Kyrgyz man found a few wet coins in the pocket of his blue apron. Ah, you non-Russian churka, you, thought Alferov in a peaceful, even affectionate manner as he counted the five grimy coins in his hand—three one-rouble coins and two fifty-kopecks. Then, quickly, in four mighty gulps, he finished the cool, frothy drink, carefully placed the glass on top of the overflowing garbage bin, and flew up.

It was chilly and crowded in the air, even though rush hour had long since ended and the main hustle and bustle had subsided. Alferov quickly oriented himself towards the northwest by the barely visible sun peeking out from behind low autumn clouds. He flew not too fast, leisurely spreading his arms to the sides, dodging the ever-hurrying teenagers and bankers resembling giant, shapeless sparrows.

Next to him, a policeman streaked past like a big blue bird.

Alferov, however, was in no hurry. The smooth, slightly intoxicating kvass pleasantly weighed down on his satisfied stomach. He lazily glided, almost resting on the buoyant airstream, blissfully surveying the surroundings. Crossing the Moscow River, he observed with interest the reflections of the glass-covered water tram shimmering on the water surface as he headed along the Garden Ring towards Arbat Street.

The Ring was jam-packed. Hundreds, if not thousands, of toy-like cars resembling colorful matchboxes stood and were contemptuously honking. Along with the noxious fumes blowing into Alferov's face, a strong wave of anger and irritation hit him. His eyes immediately welled up with tears, and he had to veer slightly to the side, assume a vertical position, and, rummaging in his voluminous briefcase, retrieve the drops prescribed by a stern lady doctor. Awkwardly clutching the puffy briefcase under his arm, Alferov painstakingly squeezed beads of fragrant, viscous liquid into his already moist eyes. The moment the drops touched his eyes, they stung, and his eyes teared up even stronger.

Flying directly over the monstrous, yet alluring in its mighty beauty, building of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Alferov carefully circled its towering spire and was just about to enter the lively and broad Arbat when three misfortunes struck him all at once.

Firstly, some wild adolescent with a foolish-looking face and bulging eyes crashed forcefully and painfully into his left side, causing Alferov to instantly lose both physical and spiritual balance. The impudent youngster, without uttering a word, hurriedly fled the scene of the crime, while poor Alferov, guided by the relentless laws of physics, comically spun around in the air, culminating in his tailbone colliding directly with the spire of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building. The spire turned out to be very cold and painfully solid.

Secondly, as Alferov's coccyx was already injured from a certain spicy yet not at all shameful incident, the pain from the fatal collision with the spire did not stay on the surface but went deep into Alferov and pierced him to the core, causing him to grab the sore spot with both hands and let out an irritated gasp.

And finally, thirdly, the most dreadful part of this incident was that his precious briefcase made of tough North American buffalo leather broke free from the hands of the bewildered Alferov and, with a mocking glimmer of its buckle, fell down. After hitting the sharp and prickly frame of the building a couple of times, the briefcase completely split open, and its contents spilled generously onto a small square. From the spire's height, Alferov watched in horror as the items, which he had acquired with care, became public property. There were pastries, freshly bought from a familiar old lady vendor, a full paper bag of antonovka apples, a scarf gifted by his wife, three large useful notepads, today's newspaper, yesterday's newspaper, a set of colorful ballpoint pens, eye drops, extra insoles, an excellent Japanese calculator capable of plotting graphs, a case with reading glasses, an umbrella, and most importantly, the Document of Distinct Importance, all now irrevocably lost to the public.

The scattered remains of the briefcase were swarmed by tiny black dots, as if a colony of ants had stumbled upon spilled sugar. Alferov snapped out of his stupor and dove down at full speed, only to confirm that he was hopelessly late. In the middle of the small open space between the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building and the Garden Ring lay the lifeless body of the once graph-plotting Japanese calculator. A homeless dog with kind, intelligent eyes was feasting on the remains of the pastries, and apples were strewn all over the square, dissected, bruised, and wounded, as if they had survived an artillery barrage. Today's newspaper glided like a white swan somewhere at the level of the power lines. Yesterday's newspaper, folded into quarters, fell much faster and met its end under the wheels of cars that escaped the clutches of the traffic jam. The insoles met a similar fate. The ants had taken care of everything else. The Document was nowhere to be found.

After futilely searching for twenty minutes, which felt like an hour to him, Alferov gave up. Aimlessly pacing the square for another fifteen minutes, he surrendered again, and half an hour later, exhausted, he sat down on a greasy and dirty curbstone. The Document was nowhere to be found, and this fact was indisputable.

Finally, a slight panic gripped Alferov.

He vomited onto the dusty pavement.

 ***

The Grand Management was beside himself.

“How could you, Alferov,” he asked in a booming voice, “lose the Document, something as valuable as your life is insignificant and foolish?”

“How dared you lose it,” he roared, “and how dared you even imagibne losing it? How did the word 'lose' even enter your worthless, cotton-filled head?”

“What kind of spineless and groveling idiot must one be,” he raged, “to lose the Document and then have the audacity to come here and announce this outrageous fact just like that, haphazardly?”

“But,” Alferov attempted to interject.

“Shut it!” the Grand Management bellowed. “Shut it and answer! How do you even dare to live after what you've done, Alferov?”

“Well,” he tried to defend himself.

“Shut it!” the Management thundered, wiping copious sweat from its managemental forehead. “Shut it! Shh! You... You are a hatcher, Alferov! A clucking hen!”

There was no way for Alferov to counter such lethal reasoning. He was a clucking hen. The argument was lost.

“Here's what I’ll do, Alferov,” the Management said, catching his breath and taking a titanic gulp from the steaming cup. “I will punish you.”

They'll cut my salary, Alferov thought with gloom but also with some relief, as he had promised to buy his wife a fur coat last month.

“I will severely punish you,” the Management said, “and your punishment will be most severe.”

Or maybe they will even demote me, Alferov pondered. After all, the Document was of Distinct Importance.

“As you are such a hen,” the Management said in a calmer, more composed tone, “I will revoke your registration. You’ll use your legs for a bit.”

A division of large goosebumps with cold, bare feet marched across Alferov's broad back.

“But it’s impossible,” he muttered.

“The impossible is possible,” said the Management vindictively, and winked. “A new administrative punitive measure. You will be our guinea pig. We will test the equipment on you.”

At the mention of ‘equipment’, Alferov felt even worse. They'll cut something out, he realized. He had been afraid of knives and scalpels since childhood.

“It’s not necessary,” he said.

“It is, Alferov, it is necessary,” the Management replied almost sympathetically, and Alferov understood: indeed, it was necessary. There was nothing he could do.

A chair, similar to a dentist’s one but reversed, with the patient lying face down and arched so that their back was exposed to the powerful light of a multi-megawatt lamp, was wheeled into the office. Then the secretary entered, holding Alferov's folder and glancing warily at the chair. This must be the ‘equipment’, Alferov thought. They'll bring the knives now. Strangely, it wasn't the consequences of losing his registration that frightened Alferov, but the process itself, which he imagined to be extremely painful and unpleasant.

“Lie down, Alferov,” the Management said. He was seated behind a large oak desk, flipping through the folder they had brought. There, in that folder, was Alferov's entire life in all its endless monotony: daycare, kindergarten, school, institute, wedding, work, the birth of a child, work, work, work, promotion, work, vacation, work. The loss of the Document. Now, lying in the terrifying chair and staring at the drab pattern on the drab carpet, Alferov thought that, overall, he had lived a meaningless life.

And then, in absolute silence, a familiar screech of a fountain pen on cheap paper gasped through the air – the High Management had crossed something out in Alferov's folder, and a strange burning sensation appeared between his shoulder blades. It felt as if a fiery worm was screwing itself into Alferov's back, not painfully but rather sadly. Odd, thought Alferov, they are revoking my registration, yet the worm is burrowing inside. Wrong way.

The burning sensation ended as abruptly as it began, and the Management sharply slammed down the folder. The sound was like squashing a mosquito against thick wallpaper.

“Go, Alferov,” the Management said.

And Alferov rose up and walked.

There were still many tasks to complete that day, unburdening yet time-consuming tasks, so Alferov finished late, around ten o'clock. He didn't feel any consequences of losing his registration, except that the secretary, when he nervously and timidly left the Management’s office, avoided looking him in the eye, and after some time, other colleagues followed her lead. Blabbed, he thought without malice, she blabbed to the whole department, silly broad. It's fine; they'll get used to it.

He was almost the last one to leave the Office, bidding a friendly farewell to the embarrassed guard, who was also avoiding his gaze. He walked on the pavement, stretching his legs, which had become stiff from the uncomfortable writing desk, and stopped. He couldn't take off. He had even forgotten how to do it. Something that had been a reflex since childhood disappeared somewhere. He tried again. Nothing. His feet wouldn't leave the ground. There was no lightness in his body. Only a murky, dragging fatigue, accompanied by melancholy. So this is it, Alferov realized. I'm now one of them. Perhaps I’ll have to buy a car.

The thought of acquiring that metallic, dirty, and smoke-spewing monster almost brought tears to Alferov's eyes. But he held back.

***

The night was cloudless, and the round, foolish white moon barely illuminated Alferov's path as he walked along the overgrown, barely visible trail in the park, leading from the Office located in its very center. The park was unusually quiet and dark; the street lamps stood too high, and their yellow light couldn't penetrate the thick crowns of the old trees. Above all that was the moon, casting thin, pale rays in all directions, and the path was occasionally lit up by their gleam. Alferov walked and felt stupid. Firstly, it was unclear how he would get home. Secondly, it was unclear what he would tell his wife and how the neighbors would react. Would they laugh at him? Would ominous whispers start every time he went out to the staircase to take out the trash? Would they tease his daughter at school? No, perhaps they wouldn't tease her; after all, many people go to school without registration, and they manage somehow – maybe even half the population.

Alferov stumbled over a protruding tree root, pulling breaks on his train of thought.

Now he would have to leave for work much earlier, he decided, at least two hours earlier. And a car would be a necessity, as much as he hated the idea. Traffic jams, gasoline, fumes, other cars – all of that did not inspire enthusiasm. He wondered if his wife still had her registration. If need be, could she still fly over to the store or to the housing department? Probably, she could.

Alferov stepped onto a wide road with old, worn-out asphalt and hesitated. Where was he flying to from here? South, then southeast, it seemed. The road led somewhere else, but there were no other options. Alferov sighed and started walking along the highway. He would probably have to buy completely different shoes, he continued his thoughts.

A car zoomed past, honking furiously, and enveloped Alferov in acrid exhaust smoke. Another car flashed by with its headlights on. Then one more. Alferov stepped to the side of the road and raised his hand with a protruding thumb, just as he had seen in a movie once. The next car braked, and Alferov opened the door.

“To Oktyabrskaya Square,” he said half-questioningly.

“Nah, buddy, I'm not going that way,” the driver replied. The driver was fat and cheerful.

“At least to Sadovoye,” Alferov said.

“That I can do,” the driver said. “I'll take you to Smolenskaya, and then you can walk the rest. It's about twenty minutes, tops. For two hundred.”

Alferov did a quick calculation. He had two hundred. But he didn't know the fares, so it was worth negotiating.

“One fifty.”

The driver nodded, and Alferov, with some effort, squeezed himself into the narrow, square cabin. Inside, it strongly smelled of cigarettes and was surprisingly cold, noticeably colder than outside. Alferov closed the door, and as the car started moving, he discreetly studied its driver. The man appeared to be around forty years old, with an open, slightly wind-burned face, red from vodka. Thick, calloused fingers firmly gripped the steering wheel. Alferov knew that the steering wheel was also called a ‘baranka’ from his youth, from some book. He couldn't remember which one. The driver lit a cigarette, looking questioningly at the passenger. Alferov shrugged.

They arrived quickly, and although Alferov was initially puzzled about how the driver managed to drive this prehistoric jalopy at such a decent speed without crashing into the identical jalopy driving next to it, he quickly got used to it and even stopped fearing the oncoming traffic. Probably, learning to drive is not difficult, he thought, observing the calm driver, how he held the wheel with one hand, how he flicked the ash down with the snap of a chubby finger onto the road passing by the window.

‘One fifty,’ the driver said, and Alferov reached into his trouser pocket for his wallet.

After paying, he got out of the car, and an exquisite aroma of juicy, sizzling kebab with onions and maybe even tomatoes hit him in the face. His stomach growled, and Alferov remembered that he hadn't eaten anything at all today because of the ridiculous incident. Of course, his wife was waiting at home with dinner, and it was only a twenty-minute walk, as the driver said, but the smell of grilled kebab outweighed all reasonable arguments. Alferov followed the scent and ended up on Arbat.

The kebab was being grilled right on the street, and there was violin and guitar music playing nearby. Gas lamps burned cozily, and people in garish clothes laughed heartily and danced. The short, ancient buildings seemed to drape Arbat with a richly colorful towel, turning it into an endless corridor filled with music, laughter, and light. Alferov, who had only been here during the day, was enchanted and instantly forgot about going home. In fact, he forgot that he was even going somewhere in the first place. He only remembered that he wanted to buy shashlik from the jolly, mustachioed man in the grubby apron and then stroll along the age-old, life-soaked sidewalks, immortalized in song, perhaps even in more than one.

The kebab was exceptionally expensive, tough, undercooked, and tasteless, but Alferov was happy.

Slightly swaying, he walked down the street, absentmindedly wiping his dirty, greasy fingers on his new trousers, humming a melody that seemed to flow from nowhere, and inhaling the unique evening air of Arbat, filling his soul with fire. Alferov hesitated for a second and then walked right into the crowd. At one point, some people caught him and whirled him into their frenzied dance, and then a bear tore his pants to shreds amid persistent cries and laughter from its owners, and while Alferov was fascinatedly pondering how a bear could even be here, he was spun in a dance again, this time by someone else, and then they led him along, and he couldn't help bursting into laughter, then they poured him kvass and then some other drink, that burned his throat and went straight to his stomach, and as he coughed and wiped the tears from his eyes, someone playfully hit him on the back, and then he ran after someone, stumbled, and ended up with a huge bump on his forehead, though it was unclear how he managed that, and then something cold was applied to the bump, and he drank something cold and laughed, and then he hugged someone, and then he hugged the bear, and it tore his pants again, awkwardly catching them with its long black claw, and finally, drunk, steaming, exhausted, and drowning in the music, he sank to the pavement, and someone sat down next to him. The person had a mound of coal-black hair, a colorful scarf, and a ringing, boisterous laugh, and that was absolutely enough for Alferov to fall madly and irreversibly in love with the girl sitting next to him.

When the fog swirling before Alferov's eyes cleared, and he looked more closely at his neighbor, he noticed that she looked older than him, though she was likely younger. Her laughter revealed a golden tooth, and she laughed constantly, and in fact, the word ‘girl’ could only be applied to her in the broadest sense. But that didn't change a thing.

The neighbor looked at Alferov with her dark, raven-like eye and hungrily kissed him, slipping her tongue deep into his mouth. Alferov tasted alcohol, honey, and, strangely, salt. Her lips were soft and strong, her breasts young, and her fingers cold and nimble. Alferov's breathing quickened, and he blushed instantly when, without any inhibition or fear, she unfastened his belt and slipped her hand into his pants. She must be a gypsy, Alferov assumed for some reason, while the neighbor kissed him again and whispered something in his ear. Only a few seconds later, Alferov realized that it was, in fact, a price.

His palms were sweaty, and his fingers struggled to bend as he frantically searched his pocket for his wallet and took out the money. The bills trembled slightly in his outstretched hand, but the gypsy didn't notice, snatching them and hiding them somewhere in her skirt. Then she pulled Alferov up from the floor and dragged him along. Looking ahead, Alferov noticed with horror the impenetrable darkness of an arch roof. For a moment, he imagined that this maw was about to swallow him, so he closed his eyes and fearfully opened them again only when the gypsy kissed him once more, passionately and firmly. They stood in the backyard under the arch, safely hidden from the noisy street by a cloud of all-consuming darkness. Alferov could only make out the silhouette of the gypsy, which suddenly seemed to shrink, as if she were squatting. And indeed, she did squat, and soon the zipper screeched, and a second later, Alferov pressed himself against the wall, straining all the muscles in his body to avoid screaming, managing only a quiet, prolonged moan. Swallowing hard and nearly tearing his parched throat, he reached forward with both hands and found the gypsy, buried his fingers in her hair. Gasping, he lifted his head up and stared at the painted ceiling. When he finally got used to the darkness, he squinted and read the large, bold graffiti, saying ‘WHY’. His body was then engulfed in a desired spasm, and the gypsy leaned back with laughter.

Fired up, Alferov pushed her onto the floor and laid down beside her, getting tangled in her colorful dress that appeared gray in the darkness, like cats in the night. His face nestled in her soft breasts, and he gently nibbled on them through the thin, somewhat bitter fabric of her blouse. Meanwhile, Alferov's hands wandered through the maze of her skirt, trying to reach her naked body. The gypsy neither helped nor hindered, silently approving of the unfolding scene, breathing heavily in excitement. In the end, his efforts were successful, and as Alferov reached, with a deafening zip of yet another protective layer, something warm and slightly damp, a blinding hammer of light hit him in the left flank from the quiet courtyard, almost physically pushing Alferos aside. His eyes immediately teared up, but even so, he managed to see a car with its headlights on and red and blue flashing lights, as well as a couple of human silhouettes. The gypsy shrieked in a beastly manner, and from all the surprise and fear, Alferov ejaculated into his pants.

He jumped up, trying simultaneously to put on his clothes and to say something, but he was immediately knocked down by a precise blow on the nose with a rubber baton from a flying police officer. Alferov once again hurt his long suffering tailbone, and then four shadows in service caps, appearing like gigantic gray condors, flashed by him and in an instant dissolved in the Arbat lights. Someone shouted.

The gypsy, who had been lying like a heap of rags on the dirty, spit-covered asphalt, suddenly fell silent, jumped to her feet, and crouching, ran into the courtyard towards the police car. A person jumped out and kicked her, then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out onto the street, past Alferov. The gypsy's eyes were completely wild, even reddish in the glare of the headlights, her face contorted, and her golden tooth glistened as she turned her head, trying to bite the policeman's hand. A trickle of blood flowed from Alferov's broken nose, and he watched it as if from a distance, like a spectator, until a rough leather boot struck his open stomach, and he writhed in pain. And then they dragged him towards the bright flickering of Arbat's streetlights. I'm probably going to die now, Alferov thought calmly and remembered that before death, one's entire life is supposed to flash before their eyes, from birth to the present, but he saw nothing except the Arbat pavement passing beneath him. As they tossed him into the grease-smelling uazik on top of others’ bodies, he looked at the street bathed in reddish light and noticed two policemen beating the bear with their feet and their batons, right next to the lamppost. Losing consciousness, Alferov smiled and thought that he would probably be punished at home for the torn pants.

***

The cell reeked of urine, vomit, and cellmates. It was a small cube, several paces each way, and the air was hot from people breathing. The walls were sweating like in a sauna. There were many cellmates, and they looked fierce, as if all of them were a warped variation of one man, dirty, scrawny, sick and very unfriendly.

“Oh, a fresh one,” one of them said kindly as soon as they pushed Alferov into the tight, foul-smelling room and the door clicked shut. “Shall we register him? Quickly?”

In response, several approving exclamations sounded, and they threw Alferov to the floor near the far wall, stained with something dark. He didn't know what ‘register’ meant, but he braced himself for the worst, curling up into a ball and covering his face and stomach with his hands. They hit him on the knee just to see his reaction, and he let out a soft yelp from the sharp, intense pain. Then three or four people started beating Alferov, but somewhat lacklusterly, without much interest, and, if one could put it this way, even gently. For example, they never once hit his ribs, which are the easiest to break. They mostly targeted his legs and arms; only once did someone's stray boot hit him in the nose, and blood spurted out again. Alferov laid still, momentarily shutting off all sensations, including pain. He simply stared through the gap between his hands at the spit-covered floor under his cellmates' feet and didn't think about anything. Finally, seemingly having had enough, they disdainfully left him alone and didn't touch him again, like a pack of wolves leaving carrion. They only rummaged through his pockets, but the policemen had already taken everything, including his wallet and passport. So Alferov focused all his efforts on lying still, calmly and motionlessly, pressing his cheek against the cold, foul-smelling floor, and hoping for a miracle. The first part worked well, but the second, not so much. Alferov even considered praying but remembered only ‘Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done’ and that was only because it rhymed, but what came next about ‘be done’, he couldn't recall or perhaps never knew. The Management was right, he thought, I'm a hen, always was, and will remain one forever. Others in my place would be thinking about their wife and daughter, worrying that I didn't come home, probably calling hospitals, and here I am lying face down in a holding cell, not thinking about anyone, not even myself, not even about death, just lying here a meaningless piece of human waste, scared of my cellmates, and if I suddenly need to use the toilet, I'll just do it right here because anything is better than standing up in the middle of a holding cell, in front of everyone, and I'll never fly again, and I'll probably have to buy a car, and new shoes, and now pants too, and there's no money for that, although maybe my wife will find a job, but she can't because of her back, dear God, what am I even thinking, I'm not even thinking about death, what a hen I am, and they wonder, why don't people fly like birds, well, that's why they don't, poor fuckers…’

The door to the cell creaked, thumped, and a drowsy male voice said:

“Alferov. On your feet.”

They led Alferov along an endless green corridor, passing a row of identical white doors, and finally pushed him into one of them. There, a friendly captain was sitting.

“Have a seat, Alferov,” said the captain, smiling. “What a night, huh?”

“Dark,” muttered Alferov, unsure of how to respond in such situations.

“He-he, that's for sure,” the captain chuckled. “Alferov, wipe the blood, your nose is dripping. Sidorenko, pass a handkerchief.”

A sleepy, tall sergeant with a wart on his right cheek offered Alferov a piece of white cloth and then unexpectedly took the initiative to wipe Alferov's nose himself. A red streak remained on the cloth.

“Well, Alferov,” said the captain, “Don't hold a grudge against the guys; they didn't know you were registered, and they didn't know where you work, you understand? We were ordered from the upstairs to disperse the commotion, and, well, you understand how they handled it. So, we'll let this one slide. It wouldn't look good, a prominent man, a civil servant, married, and hooking up with some whore in an alley. Couldn't find anyone better, Alferov?”

“No.”

“Well, alright then, it's your business, you can fuck a goat, he-he, as far as I'm concerned. But, you understand, not on my watch. In any case, we'll keep quiet about this, and you'll write a statement that, say, three unknown individuals attacked you, beat you up, and took all your cash. You understand. If you want, there's a board with composites; you can study them and include the details in your statement. For credibility. And then, my Alferov, fly away in any direction, free like a pigeon. Don't hold a grudge, you understand.”

“Is everything fine with my registration?”

“Yeah, why? Bothering you? Itching?” The captain sneered. Silent Sidorenko unexpectedly smiled.

“No matter. Give me your paper. I'll sign.”

“Alright then,” the captain said, smiling even wider. “You understand then.”

Alferov took the handkerchief from the sergeant and wiped his nose. Then he asked:

“What about the gypsy?”

“What gypsy? Oh, your girl? Big deal, there she is, in the cell right now. The guys roughed her up, of course, you understand. By the way, why do you call her a gypsy? She's not a gypsy, she's Russian, from Pskov. We'll send her back there, eventually.”

“Can I see her?”

“Oh fuck, Alferov, what do you think this is, a museum? Fine, Sidorenko, take our friend and show him his gypsy on the way out, since, you understand, he's asking so nicely.”

When Alferov signed the last form, and the captain wished him, you understand, a safe journey and many happy returns, he-he, the sergeant practically held his hand and led him through the green corridor to a little window. There they gave Alferov his confiscated belongings, including his wallet, which was missing nearly a thousand roubles, probably for credibility, and a photo of his daughter for some unknown reason. Alferov wanted to protest but didn't bother. Then Sidorenko showed him the gypsy. She was sitting on the floor of another dirty cell, spreading her thin legs in torn skirts wide apart and constantly howling. Instead of the gold tooth, a bloody clot could be seen in her mouth.

“Let's get out of here,” Alferov asked.

Finally, the sergeant, not Sidorenko but a different one, a bald one, escorted him to the dispatch and lazily gestured towards the exit.

“Thank you,” said Alferov, but received no response.

Outside, a cold, almost wintry wind was blowing, and out of habit, Alferov wiped his no longer bleeding but still swollen nose with the once-white handkerchief given to him at the police station. His bruised kidneys and tailbone were painfully throbbing, bruises on his arms and legs itched, and his stomach was growling, but he felt strangely good. But why, thought Alferov, did they take my daughter's photo? Then he thought a little more and flew back home.

---

Thanks for reading! I really hope you liked it. There are two admin issues to take care of, so please take a look.

1. I plan to publish a short story here approximately once a month, but I figured I’d also ask you. So please click on the most suitable option.

2. I have finished translating my novel to English, and now I really need beta-readers. So if you’re up for it, send me an email at me@asimonov.me. Beta-reading will include, well, reading the novel plus answering a quick questionnaire, which is mostly multiple-choice questions and will probably take you 5–10 minutes. I might also ask you some follow-up questions afterwards.

   The novel is called “A Grain of Salt”. On the one hand, it is a novel about scientific discovery, beliefs, and truth, and how to merge them into a coherent world picture. On the other hand, it is a novel about ghosts and a little bit about Israel. On the third hand (oh, no!), it is a novel about loss. A dishonest marketologist might call it “Ghostbusters meets Harry Potter” but it is much less commercial than either.

Best,

K.