“It’s an expression for a really bad cold,” I told her. “I had something similar once. I was a teenager. A bunch of friends and I went to Mardi Gras in New Orleans for a weekend. No one had a car, so we took a Greyhound—a bus. It was air-conditioned. A vent was right above my seat. I didn’t know how to shut it off, and I fell asleep with freezing cold air blowing on me. When we got to New Orleans in the morning—it was an overnight bus—I had all Pepper’s symptoms. Fever, shivering, no strength. When we got to the hotel, I dropped into bed and couldn’t get out of it for twelve hours. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t do anything.”

“And then what?”

“It just went away. Literally within an hour I went from feeling dead to almost normal.”

“So you think Pepper will magically get better too?” she asked.

I nodded. “I think he just needs rest.”

On that note Elizaveta yawned. I did too.

“So what did I miss in here?” I asked.

“Miss?” she said.

“What did you guys do while Pita and I were outside?”

“Nothing amazing.” She shrugged. “Jesus and Nitro had arm wrestle.”

“Who won?”

“Take guess, Jack.”

“Did they talk shit about me?”

“Shit? No. They said some bad things. But never shit.”

“It’s an expression.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“So?” I pressed.

“What?”

“What did they say?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t… So what did they say?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because Jesus will be your brother-in-law. I don’t want to make trouble.”

“He’s not going to be my brother-in-law.”

“Yes, when you marry Pita, he will—”

I lowered my voice. “Pita and I broke up.”

Elizaveta blinked in surprise. “When?”

“When you guys were inside here arm wrestling apparently.”

She was reticent. She fiddled with the garden claw on the table before her, turning it over in her hands. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said finally. “Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

She looked at me. I looked at her. She seemed as though she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. Still, her eyes didn’t leave mine.

“You’ll be okay, Jack.”

I nodded.

“You know what you need do?”

I waited.

“Move to Russia.”

“Russia?”

“You are rich American man. Handsome American man. You can have every girl in Russia you want.”

This comment surprised me, because although she wasn’t in Russia, I couldn’t help but feel she was speaking about herself too.

So was she hitting on me—all of five minutes after I’d broken up with Pita?

I glanced at the door to Pepper’s room, glad I’d closed it. But was Pita on the other side, with her ear against it, listening?