The Untouchable

Chapter 88

"I'll deal with him in the next few weeks," Sennoy rattled the door, judging by the sound, and the clanking construction noise faded into the background. "When are you coming?"

Daniel noted the phrasing: not if, but when. Sennoy had no doubt he'd corner him eventually. Anger flared up like dry straw catching fire. What did they all want from him?

"I need to make sure I don't get into a worse situation," Daniel sighed, struggling to keep his voice calm but failing miserably. "And I don't understand why you need me if you're supposed to help me get home. So clear a path for me, and I'll go."

Sennoy flicked his lighter, took a drag, and exhaled into the speaker.

"You're sweating over nothing. You think hiding in the sticks will keep you safe. But you're broke or close to it, and that cash won't last. No papers, no school certs, no work record—you'll only get crap jobs. You won't wanna haul stuff or work in a lumberyard. Sooner or later, you'll have to hit Moscow for the consulate. That's where they'll nab you. And pray it's Sasha, not his old man. Matvey's got a mean streak. Sasha won't even know it's his own dad that'll off you. Wait for Matvey to back off, and Sasha's guys will snag you at the consulate. I won't lift a finger to help. Why should I stick my neck out if you don't trust me?"

"I realize you can't go in there right now. But you didn't answer my question," Daniel hissed, growing more annoyed. "Why do you need me?"

"You know why," Senny snorted unhappily. "I made it clear in the hookah bar. Yes, I want to help you, but not just that. I'm interested in you, Daniel."

"I'm not!" Daniel kicked a rock in frustration. "I'm not gay, don't you get it?"

"I'm not gay either; I like women," Sennoy calmly replied. " But you're a special case, Daniel, in every way. I ain't like Sashka; no games from me. You'll stick with me through the chaos, and then I'll clear your path. And I won't let you go empty-handed; I'll grab a nice cut of the Bystritskys' cash for you. They owe you that much, don't you think?"

Daniel listened in silence, shivering with disgust. The plan was to avert his eyes and then agree, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. People came into the poznaya, looking around indifferently and shaking off the drizzle under the porch awning. They were ordinary travelers, going home or visiting, crushed by the routine of life but unaware of what it meant to be trapped and trade their body for freedom. They left satisfied, flushed from hot tea and buuza, wiping their oily fingers. Each had a home, a family, a place to rush to. Daniel had an obstacle course to overcome to help the one person he needed to save. The thought of his mom burned and motivated him.

"Are you listening?" Sennoy was losing patience. " You'll be alright with me. You put up with Sashka's bullshit, and I'm way calmer than him. Just don't lie to me; I saw you two together. I'll take care of everything: lifting the border block, getting the Bystritskys' money. So, what do you say?"

"I need to think about it," Daniel muttered tiredly. "And I'll tell you right now: even if I agree, I won't live with you. Otherwise, I won't come. I'd rather work in the woods."

"Hmm, think about it?" Sennoy sounded like he was smiling. "Knowing you, you'll take forever to decide. Indecisive. People like you need a push. Come back in a week, Daniel, or I won't help you."

Daniel disconnected the call without answering. He stood for a while, collecting himself. It was time to head back. It was getting dark, and the last minibuses might be full, leaving little hope for a hitchhiker. Contacting Maxim was much easier – he could call from your cell phone. But to talk to Sennoy, he had to go to the nearest point from the village where the mobile Internet worked.

He stepped off to the side of the road and realized he almost forgot to buy his grandmother some buuza. She had praised the local poznaya, saying the owners cooked according to all the rules, chopping rather than grinding the meat, and not adding any fillers. Daniel stomped on the doorstep, brushed mud off his sneakers, and walked in. He smelled the stuffy, humid air, saturated with the odors of food. He tensed involuntarily when the munching people turned at the sound of the door opening, then relaxed when they turned away. While ordering buuza, he felt curious glances but no real interest - just curiosity about the stranger in their land. Daniel knew he was unmistakably an outsider, and he could guess why. He dressed like the locals, in made-in-China clothes, but didn't follow social fashion: no sporty joggers with sneakers, no oversized sweatshirts with Adidas and Nike labels, no conforming haircut. He was outside the caste, which was familiar, but here it felt nice - he wasn't perceived as inferior.

Baba Songalik wrinkled her nose in a restrained smile - she wasn't one to show open emotion. Still, she chuckled into her palm when Daniel pulled out a bundle of buuzas from under his jacket, the hot food having burned his chest the whole way.

"You shouldn't have wasted the money," she complained, but immediately went to the cabinet to pull out a flat buuza plate and two tea saucers. She flicked the switch on the kettle, and it buzzed and gurgled - she had been keeping the water hot, waiting. Daniel's heart ached with longing - how could he leave her? He unbuttoned his jacket and stood by the table, watching her stubby, solid back.

Baba Songalik, having nimbly gathered plates, cups, a jar of mustard, and soy sauce, suddenly froze. She stood tensely in the general dull silence and sank - almost imperceptibly, still fidgeting finely with her work-roughened fingers over the utensils, maintaining a royal posture. But the smallest details - the humble tilt of her proud head, the slightly slumped shoulders, the wobbly blue tuft of hair - conveyed her immense fatigue.

"Are you going to go, Daniel?"

"Yes, grandma. It's time," Daniel replied, hurriedly pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door. He stumbled, unsure of how to comfort her. He sighed gloomily - he was a lousy comforter.

"It's time," Baba Songalik repeated, jumping up and picking up the dishes. "Wash your hands, there's no need to bring road dirt into the house. Tomorrow we'll start packing: I have a bag, but we should buy better clothes. You need to dress more fashionably - in Moscow, everyone wears expensive clothes, and they should take you for an equal. Go to Irkutsk; there's a good selection there. And I'll look for a room for you and order a lamb."

"What room and lamb? I'm flying to Moscow," Daniel said, looking over his shoulder as he washed his hands.

"What you need, you'll get," Baba Songalik said glumly. "You're going on serious business, and I'm not a fool, though I'm an old country woman. I see everything. For serious business, you must prepare seriously. I'll butcher a lamb to provide a feast for my grandson's departure. I won't let you stay just anywhere - you'll meet bad people and go drinking and partying with them. I'll find you a good roommate so that my soul will be at peace."

"Oh," Daniel said, understanding. "This is the room. Thank you, I'm all for it. But why butcher the lamb?"

"All our people will gather together, eat a hearty meal, laugh, and be truly happy for you. This joy is protection, Daniel," Baba Songalik said, taking the first buuza, biting into it, drinking the meat juice, and covering it with mustard. "Protection. Don't argue with me! I'm three times your age, I know life better."

"A lamb is a lamb," Daniel agreed obediently, grabbing the still-hot buuza. He smiled at the suggestion to go shopping in Irkutsk: no matter what he bought there, he wouldn't look equal to Alexander and his buddies or Sennoy. He didn't want to spend money on nonsense - those freaks didn't care what he wore; they'd strip him down anyway. He muttered darkly.

"I'll buy clothes in Moscow, there's a wider choice there."

Baba Songalik didn't say anything, only stared helplessly and desperately.