22
A quiet, sunny morning. Moscow is floating on poplar fluff. I sit in the playground in front of Beta’s block of flats and try not to look at the window, at that window. The swings are broken, no seats, and I try to figure out whether you can still swing on them. You probably can, if you grab hold of the metal chains…
Gamma comes up silently, touches me on the shoulder.
“Let’s go?”
We take the lift to the tenth floor. I’m struck by the familiarity of the door.
There’s no dust; Auntie Manya must have come to clean not long ago. The sun has streaked the walls, the cupboard, the piano, and lit up the face of the wall clock which, no doubt, stopped long ago. It’s unbearably stuffy, and Gamma opens the window.
We sit ourselves down at the table. Beta always used to cover it with a white
