Letters

It’s unclear whether it was the emotions cried out of his system or the powerful dose of six violet pills, but the old man slept more peacefully than he had in many years. No more gymnasts, no more digital demons haunted his sleep. There was still a slight chill on his lips, but it grew weaker by the day — he chalked it up to growing physical strength.

One thing remained, though, something he had to deal with. In that strange and utterly alien dream, the soles of his feet glowed with colored lights. But as he regained his strength, he managed to resolve that too — by turning the flashlight back toward the eye that directed it.

From then on, every day began with a touch of one of the letters laid carefully on his desk. A sort of ritual — “Did you forget?” “I did not!”

He remembered, and that thought alone gave him strength. He began taking better care of himself, and when it got hard, he reread Alina’s letters and wondered— what is she like? Sometimes the thought of their meeting frightened him: “What should I say? How will she react to an old man? Will she even want to establish a contact? Maybe she’ll come out of politeness, see a feeble old man she barely knows, and then just go on with her life?”

That was entirely possible — very possible — but there was no way to find out. He asked Frau Schicklbraun about it no more than once a week so as not to be a bother, but sometimes — twice a month or so — letters still came from her. She was still on Soltari but, according to her, planned to return to Chernostok soon.

He wanted to be in top shape for that moment. He’d apologized a thousand times for the wreck he’d been that day at Frau Schicklbraun’s, knowing that such a state of mind would be absolutely unacceptable in front of his daughter.

He walked a lot, never daring to get behind the wheel again, but walking seemed much more beneficial anyway, and Frau Schicklbraun fully approved his new approach.

Several months passed. He not only walked around the city but also actively made inquiries. Yet the new administration of Chernostok and all the archives couldn’t help him find his daughter or establish any other contacts.

“That’s all right,” he thought, stepping once again out of the administration building empty-handed. The day was good, the sun was out, a gentle breeze was blowing, and a letter from Alina had arrived just yesterday — a brand new one, by the way.

The military police knew him by now — he’d walked those streets so often that he’d memorized nearly every patrol officer, and when they saw him, they just waved —“Go ahead, we know you.”

“Good guys,” he’d wave back.

Most often, he returned home in good spirits. Then, as usual, he and Frau Schicklbraun would have long and heartwarming conversations with some tea. Though he was now quite capable of looking after himself (his pension arrived regularly), her guardianship didn’t bother him in the slightest. On the contrary, he was grateful to fate for having such a person around him. Her husband, it turned out, had died during the first division of Chernostok — and for nothing, just following the orders of Дед who led the defense.

“And who were we defending from? Why? They took the city over anyway,” she’d say, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief.

Chernostok was indeed recovering. The gray, charred city, worn out by endless strife, was finally coming back to life. Streets and buildings were looking better — but the Triangular Square was beyond saving.

He remembered the Triangle, remembered what it used to be. Now, of course, it was gone. One thousand seven hundred and fifty gilded sharp pyramids — one for each victim of the explosion — now covered Triangular Square.

“A dead scar on the body of a living city,” he once described it during tea with Frau Schicklbraun.

“You said it perfectly,” she sighed. “Maybe it’s cynical, but… without those sacrifices, there would have been no progress.”

A month ago, the old man would have protested, but over time he’d grown savvier in politics and had many conversations with people. Just one glance at any “Bavovna” was enough. That kind of thing never happened under Дед. So many new centers of gravity, so many young, happy, forward-looking faces — wherever you looked.

Only one thing gnawed at him — the one thousand seven hundred and fifty gilded sharp pyramids.

“But this too shall pass, right, Fluffie?”

Frau Schicklbraun left the cat with him again — as she always did on Fridays.

“Look, Fluffie — I’m not the same man I was a few months ago — see for yourself.” He pulled off his T-shirt and stood straight in front of the mirror. “How old would you say I am?”

Fluffie meowed.

“Don’t know? Me neither… My passport says almost eighty-three, but looking at me — you wouldn’t give me more than sixty, right?” He pulled his shirt back on, sat on the sofa, and scratched the cat’s belly.

Fluffie purred approvingly.

“So we agree? Remember what a wreck I was when they left you with me the first time? I was scared of my own shadow, terrified to even step outside… Ugh! A total wreck!”

He smiled at the memory.

“We’re not getting younger, sure — but we are getting prettier. That’s a fact. Each in our own way. You’ve put on some nice weight. Your mom feeds you well, huh?” He playfully patted Fluffie’s belly, and she grabbed his hand with her front paws and kicked at it with her hind legs, in perfect feline tradition.

“All right, all right, enough play. Look here now.”

Fluffie calmed instantly and sat down beside him, eyeing the map on the table with interest. The old man looked at her in surprise.

“Can’t shake the feeling cats are smarter and more understanding than some people…”

“Meow!”

“I know, look here.”

One of his new hobbies was politics. A couple of months ago, Frau Schicklbraun finally transferred her subscription to him, so the newspapers now came straight to his mailbox.

“Frau Schicklbraun,” he once said, “you laugh at my newspaper obsession, but understand this: I’m too old for the internet, too deaf for the radio, and too smart for television.”

“So, Fluffie, let’s see what we’ve got today,” he said, spreading a blank sheet of paper and starting to sketch with a pencil.

“Chernostok — a northern city with access to the sea, a point of strategic importance, drenched in blood, caught in the pincers of two great powers — Alderhagen to the west, Le Compostier to the east. Further east — Eastern Rudevia. You’re asking about Western Rudevia? It’s now Le Compostier, which is why they’re not too friendly. Look here —” he tapped the southern part of his improvised map — “this is Soltari, still trying to divorce Alderhagen, but can’t seem to do it. And Eastern Rudevia supports them, because any discord in La Liga delights them…”

“Meow!”

“Agreed, my daughter’s on Soltari, by the way — no idea how she’ll get to Chernostok, but she must. But look here, Fluffie — whose will Chernostok be? Alderhagen and Le Compostier have nothing but mountains to the north —only Chernostok’s bay remains… So they keep fighting over us, Fluffie.” He gently scratched her behind the ears. “Though La Liga treats people decently — not like Дед did.”

A pain shot through his lower back. Nasty old headlines flooded back from the time he used to wrap himself in blankets to avoid seeing anything.

“You know what…” the old man pondered. “Let’s catch some flies instead?”

Fluffie meowed.

As always, she caught them effortlessly. No escape from feline paws.

“My treat!” the old man declared, opening a can of the finest cat food. “But not a word to your owner!”

Fluffie crunched in agreement.

“All’s well, all’s well,” he relaxed, got lost in maps and newspapers — and dozed off.

The doorbell woke him. Strange — he hadn’t had unexpected visitors in months.

“Doesn’t seem like Frau Schicklbraun — it’s not even seven yet,” he thought, but opened the door anyway. It was her, in fact.

“News!” she blurted from the threshold.

“What?”

“A letter!” she was clearly out of breath.

“Alina?”

“Yes.”

“But why so urgent?” he asked in surprise. She never rushed things like this — letters usually arrived on Fridays, and Frau Schicklbraun would read them aloud over Saturday tea.

“Tomorrow.”

His heart skipped a beat.

“Dear Papa,
We’ll finally see each other soon! I’m flying out from Soltari this evening, with a layover. I’ll be in Chernostok in the morning.
Alina Offenbauer”

“I…”

“I’ve got to run. Whether you’re ready or not — that’s your decision, okay? Seven o’clock tomorrow in the parking lot. I’ll drive.”

Once again, she handed down her instructions briskly and busily, then rushed off.

And as for him — he had no idea what to do.