After bathing, Nadezhda gets dressed. She gathers her voluminous flesh into a tight, black corset. She does not put on underpants. It isn’t cold enough yet. And she finds it more comfortable. Only a pair of jeans, a high-necked pullover, a windbreaker and her low laced boots. In her bag she puts a sandwich, cigarettes, a Mickey of vodka, handy-wipes, condoms and hydrogen peroxide. With sunglasses perched on her nose, she is ready for her journey.

That day, a while ago now, she came out of the woods with her baskets full. She left her load at the edge of the wide road by the old bus stop. She returned with two boxes. On one of them she organized the mushrooms in pretty piles, she herself sat down on the other, and began to wait. It was Friday afternoon, cars sped by one after the other. Not one of them slowed down but just roared past. Nadezhda had begun to lose hope, when a fancy-looking car stopped suddenly a short distance from her. After two young girls had stepped out, the car drove away. Dressed in short skirts, their hair in disarray, shivering, they approached Nadezhda.

Did she know that this place was spoken for?

Did they also want to sell something?

The girls lit up cigarettes, began to snicker and told her that they sold the best goods available and the going rate for them was much higher than for mushrooms …

Nadezhda looked on as they brushed their hair, applied make-up to their wear y faces, smoked and sipped from a previously unnoticed bottle. Then they positioned themselves some distance from each other facing the oncoming cars, their hands held out at their side, their thumbs stuck out provocatively.

The warm fragrance of her bath still encircles Nadezhda as she takes her usual walk along the edge of the highway. She has beaten her own special path. Its distance from the traffic is adequate for her not to be hit accidentally, nor sprayed with slush when it has snowed unpredictably or when there is a thaw.

It is a sunny, warm autumn day. The highway is dry. The traffic – not too heavy, nor too sparse. Somewhat middling. The real work begins in the afternoon, but she arrives earlier. To talk to the girls, to swap stories. Not far from the old bus stop is their warehouse – an abandoned high-voltage electricity storage unit. It is a place where they can keep their cosmetics, drinks, basic first-aid, and various knick-knacks needed for their daily work. It is good here at the edge of the highway – the pimps leave them alone. They think that the girls are only wanted by desperate long-distance drivers of the large vans travelling to and from Russia. What can they afford? Besides, the pimps think they are infected with all sorts of diseases like mangy dogs.

But they have some regular clients. Not that they don’t chance on some bastards now and then, but that happens rarely. In sum, they earn their daily bread honestly.