THE NINTH
Ivan, a.k.a. Figura, had been stripped of his usual loquaciousness. That there Eva Topolská, son of a — What an i***t you were, to talk about that grenade… That I allowed myself to say such stupid… for f**k’s sake! Seventeen, eighteen years old she is, no more than that — Where’d she learn all those things? He had to admit it: that little girl with the brutally cropped blonde hair terrified him. ‘So, do it if you’ve got a mind to,’ she told him when they entered his room, after which, with a wink and a nod, he’d gone off to the kitchen to fetch something to drink. She lay on the pillows as naked as a finger. The finger of a flabby hand, for sure. When, before, they were just petting, he felt in control. And then, ‘go ahead and do it, if you’ve a mind to.’ Each movement, each ste
