For the next four years Elizaveta pursued a university degree in education, focusing on English, French, and Spanish. She had grown sick of her homeland—sick of the daily indignities, the endless prostitution of everybody and everything—and her plan was to move to Western Europe or the United States. Upon graduating, however, she discovered there were few legal channels for low-paid employment abroad such as teaching. Elizaveta considered simply getting on a plane to the West with the intention of never returning—the Russian Federation was not the USSR; you were no longer persecuted or imprisoned if you applied for a visa—yet she hesitated. If she violated her visa regulations, she would not have any legal status in her new country, which was why most Russian women who attempted such an escape ended up trafficked as sex workers.

In the end Elizaveta accepted a job in an elementary school in Saint Petersburg, where she taught for several years. Life in the new Russia improved slightly, but a pair of sneakers were still something you showed off, and a VCR was still a luxury far out of her reach. Then, in 1997, when she was twenty-five years old, her close friend, Olga, who worked as a nanny for a wealthy family, told her the family was moving to Mexico—and interviewing for a governess of Russian nationality who could speak Spanish.

2

Elizaveta folded her arms more tightly across her chest, to ward off the damp chill in the hut. She told herself to be positive. She shouldn’t be thinking about being back in San Angel. They’d made their decision not to return with the boatman to Cuemanco, they couldn’t change that, so they had to deal with the situation the best they could. Besides, who would have thought the weather would have deteriorated so implacably and quickly?

Pita examined Jesus’s ankle, pressing her fingers to it gently. The ankle had turned a virulent purple and had swollen to the size of a melon.

“Stop it,” Jesus told her. “That’s not helping any.”

“We need to reduce the swelling,” she replied.

“Got a spare bag of frozen peas?” he remarked.

“Hopefully it will be better in the morning.”

“Fucking Jack,” Jesus grumbled.

“He didn’t mean it,” Elizaveta said. Her Spanish accent wasn’t native, it never would be, but her Spanish was about as fluent as her English.

“Didn’t mean it?” Jesus said to her. He’d pushed his Aviators up onto his forehead and was looking at her with incredulity. “Did you see how hard he shoved me?”

“Pepper said Nitro started it.”

Jesus waved dismissively. “Pepper doesn’t know anything.”

“I saw you and Nitro double-teaming him.”

“You’re taking Jack’s side?” Pita asked. Her long-lashed eyes were dark and disapproving. She shot a Camel from her pack and lit up.