Twelve
Lighting a cigarette, I glanced up and down. Finally I saw what I was looking for. There were four youths coming down the street. They were all big boys and they were wearing clothes that might have been bought in America. They were stilyagi, Moscow’s equivalent of hippies. I had remembered that they hung around this section, and had been hoping I would spot them. I walked in their direction, and stopped in front of them.
“Zdravstvuyte,” I greeted them. “I would like to ask a favor of you.”
They stared at me, but there was no fear in their eyes. “What sort of favor?” one of them asked.
“There is a man who is following me. You should be able to see him.”
They looked past me. “I see a man,” the same one said. “He is standing on the street, looking around as if he were lost.”
“Th
