Sasha left the café without looking back.
The two envelopes were no longer in his hands, but the weight was still there, lodged in his body like a splinter that could not be pulled out. Ksenia had not asked any questions. Not yet. She had accepted the secrets with the same calm with which she stirred her coffee, as if she knew that some things should not be opened immediately, that first they need to be allowed to breathe.
He felt trapped in a spiral of struggle, where his individual soul confronted eternal forces that had always ruled everything, as portrayed with brutal clarity by Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Boris Pasternak.
The Russian spring seemed to mock him: old snow melting into dirty puddles, bare trees creaking like ancient vertebrae. Every shadow stretched until it brushed against his steps; every reflection in the glass returned a face that no longer belonged to him. He felt the city watching him, judging him, and within that gaze he sensed the cruelty of a destiny he had never chosen.
The world was cruel to him.
There were empty spaces in his memory. He wanted to remember.
How had his companion died?
What was he carrying?
What orders had he given?
He walked the path back to the military residence as he had many times before, still asking himself what he was doing there. Far from his family, from his dog Kashtan, and caught in a story far too large for him to understand.
He was beginning to feel something special for that professor with the restless, gentle gaze, someone who comforted him in a way he had not expected and awakened timeless emotions that slipped into his senses without restraint.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
When he entered through the weathered door of the building, he was struck by the absence of anyone at the reception desk. He also sensed a strange solitude in those tall corridors that opened into two enormous wings on either side of the staircase, which rose six floors upward.
When he reached his room, there was no need to use the key.
The half-open door announced the earthquake forming inside him.
Everything was scattered across the floor, piled up chaotically, carrying a clear warning:
There is no safe place for traitors.
He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and took several photographs. Then he began, carefully, to pick up objects, books, and documents. As he returned them to their original places, he confirmed that nothing was missing.
This had not been a robbery.
And then Ksenia surfaced in his mind, as the most obvious threat.
He grabbed his anorak and left through the door without locking it, in case they returned, so they would know he had understood.
He went back out into the streets. There, he felt safer.
He walked along Lenina Avenue, and when exhaustion caught up with him, he boarded one of the city buses that followed the same direction as the Tom River, which ran parallel and divided the city into two worlds.
From a distance, he imagined what the light in his office might look like. He thought he recognized a familiar silhouette on the second floor, but he was not certain.
Students were beginning to leave the classrooms, and the streetlamps started filling the pavement with yellow circles of light.
—You know now —a voice said when Sasha answered the phone.
—Who are you?
—For now, just a friend who… —he paused, choosing his words— just wants to help.
—I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood to play a game I have no intention of joining.
—Too late —he replied firmly—. You no longer have any choice. And I regret to tell you that I am your only chance to come out of this unscathed.
—Fine. What do you want from me?
—You will hear from me soon. Once I confirm that everything is clear, I will find a way to meet you and explain everything.
—And in the meantime? Do I wait to be killed?
—Everything will come in its own time. I can’t talk any longer. Goodbye.
The call ended abruptly.
Sasha quickly tried to save the number, but the screen showed only one word:
PRIVATE.
