upwards, clinking like metal being
struck on metal, sharp in the still
air. Reaching the snow, I sit in its
cold softness and look out over the
tree-covered mountains; I take a
handful of snow and put it in my
mouth ...
Two men lounge on a wooden
bench outside a structure made from
a rusty shipping container. I pull up
and kill the engine. The heat gathers
about me like a presence. I ask about
somewhere to sleep. They confer,
shake their heads then make a phone
call. A man in an old 4X4 arrives,
sticks his arm out of the window to
shake my hand.
I follow after him through mould-
ering tenements along an atrocious
road - Sing Sing, I think to myself,
feeling as if I am entering that noto-
rious prison where amoral men with
tattoos smudged like bruises on their
bony limbs grin while they commit
atrocities on other men in the show-
ers.
A group of young men in their
twenties begin to gather, stray-dog-
looking men with shaven heads and
bad teeth, wet lips and stringy mus-
cles on their arms like bicycle tyres,
their trousers loose on their hips - the
kind of men who make you wish you
were somewhere else or, at the very
least, had your back to a wall and
only a little money in your wallet.
They greet me, smiling their
ragged smiles and gathering about,
examining the bike.
"Vy Anglichanan?" one asks in Rus-
sian. "Na Suzuki?"
"Da -" I nod. They look at each
other blankly as if I have told them I
come from outer space.
Later, at the corner magazin I buy
a potato, carrot, onion and some
pasta for my supper. An old man
with a hooked nose approaches me,
some small change held in his hand.
I don't understand what he says to me
but his voice has the tone of someone
asking for money. Then I realise that
the lady at the till has turned him
away because he doesn't have enough
to pay for his purchases: a half-loaf
of bread and a beer. I open my wallet
and ask him how much he needs. He
shows me a rouble coin and holds up
five fingers - five roubles or roughly
5p. I give him ten and he thanks me
as if I have been excessively gener-
ous. I feel like a fraud. He goes back
to the counter, completes his pur-
chase and walks out with the bread
and beer.
Outside of town, the river runs
shallow and dimpling and clear as
ice. A woman lies on the stony bank
in her bra and pants, exposing her
pale fat to the evening sun …
TRAVERSE 46
I approach three young men and
we shake hands. One has rotten teeth
and his grip crushes my hand. They
are shirtless, their torsos lean as
whippets. One, pale-skinned and un-
shaven, has a tattoo of a skull gripped
in a fist on his arm and the Madonna
and child across his stomach. They
offer me vodka in a crumpled plastic
cup. I accept, stressing malenkie -
small! They pour me a cup full and
break off a piece of stale bread.
When I return to my apartment
block, two young ladies, a little worse
for the wear from alcohol, blow me
kisses. In my room, there are dead
things in the sugar and my bed feels