Beyond the Shadow of Night(91)

“Strong antibiotics. They say I should be okay in a few months—if not weeks.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Mykhail, there’s something else I have to tell you.”

“More?” Mykhail started to laugh but cut it short. “Of course. What?”

“Well, do you remember that millennium celebration we went to?”

Mykhail shrugged. “Uh, yeah. So what?”

“And what I said then?”

“To tell you the truth I was too busy keeping an eye on Diane and that boyfriend of hers. You know he proposed to her? Can you believe that?”

“It’s what people do.”

“Thankfully she had the sense to turn him down.”

“You should give her more freedom, Mykhail. You can’t keep her forever.”

“Look, never mind telling me what to do. What’s your point?”

“I promised myself I would do something. But I guess I just lost my nerve, completely put the idea to the back of my mind. But this chest infection is a warning. I’m getting old. I don’t have much time.”

“Tell me about it.” Mykhail lifted up a hand, its knuckles swollen and the fingers twisted. “These things are useless. I can hardly hold a pen, let alone write. We’re both getting older.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I’m running out of time to do stuff.”

Mykhail eyed him quizzically. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m going back home.”

“Home?”

“Dyovsta—or whatever remains of it.”

“You’re kidding?” Mykhail struggled to produce more than a croak for a few seconds. “All these years you complain about journeys, and now you’re rushed to hospital with chest pains and—”

“I wasn’t rushed here, and I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re still very ill. Shouldn’t you be concentrating on getting better rather than planning a vacation to Europe?”

Asher strained to pull himself up into a sitting position. “Mykhail. My little health scare has only served to strengthen my resolve. You know we’ve talked about this plenty over the years—returning to see what’s left of the old farm and the village center.”

“No, Asher. You’ve whined on about it once or twice, but always accepted you could never afford it, and I’ve always said it was another life that I have fond memories of—memories I don’t want to spoil.”

“Are you not even curious?”

“A little. But only a little. Accept it, Asher, we’re seventy-eight. We’re old and our lives are here. The stress of going back there would kill us, especially you, and especially after this.” Mykhail motioned toward the medical paraphernalia surrounding Asher’s bed.

“But that’s just it,” Asher said. “Now I have to go more than ever.”

“What?”

“My mortality has been pointed out to me. My best years are far behind me, and whether it’s my chest or my heart or something else, I’m going to die sometime. I might as well die while I’m doing something I want to do.”

“Can you afford it?”

Asher shook his head. “I’ve worked that out. I need to take a few weeks to recover. After that I can get a job, just working at a checkout or something. I don’t spend much. I can earn enough money in a few months to pay for a cheap flight, and accommodation shouldn’t cost much over there.”

“Asher, please, my friend. Stop this. It won’t do you any good.”

Asher stared straight at him. “I’m not doing it for me.”

“But you should rest. You’ve contracted a serious chest infection, for Christ’s sake, not had a tooth extraction. You can’t work.”

“I have to do this, Mykhail. And I’m going to.”

Mykhail pursed his lips. “I’ll pay,” he said quietly.

“You won’t, you goddamn idiot.”

“You’re calling me an idiot?”

“I was once a beggar, Mykhail. Never again.”

“You’re not begging; I’m offering—even though I don’t think you can cope with the travel and the stress.”

“We’ll see.”

“Okay, okay. Just promise me you’ll think about my offer. I really don’t want you to go back. But if you’re thinking of getting a job to pay for it, talk to me first. I’ll pay. And the hotels too. No strings, just a gesture between old friends.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“Shut up, won’t you? I have a few cents stored away. I can afford it. Just get yourself better first.”

Asher looked down, surveying the instruments attached to his decaying body. He glanced at Mykhail out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll think about it.”

Mykhail smiled and held his hand out. “Brothers in all but blood, remember?”

Asher grabbed his hand and gave it a strong shake. “All but blood.”



In July, after many weeks of treatment and recuperation—not to mention a lot of soul-searching—Asher took advantage of Mykhail’s offer and flew to Kiev. He killed a little time researching history in the library, then took a train and taxi to Dyovsta.